


Boredom: Or How Sam Winchester Avoids Fratricide

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, One-Shot, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam arranges for Dean to have some time to recover from a hunting injury, which leads to a bored Dean. Which is bad news for Sammy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boredom: Or How Sam Winchester Avoids Fratricide

The problem was that homicide was illegal in all fifty states, and anything less than death would only encourage him. Sam knew from experience. So what he should have done was keep his mouth shut because sometimes, if you ignored Dean long enough, he got bored and went away. Unfortunately, patience had never been one of Sam's virtues when it came to his brother.

"Dude, quit it!" he snapped, twisting in his seat to glare.

Dean stared back with wide, 'who-me?' eyes, his face a picture of innocence. Sam might even have fallen for it, if his brother wasn't currently crinkling up another paper missile. A small pile of them already lay scattered on the scuffed orange carpet around Sam's chair. Dean had been at this particular game for a while.

"Quit what?" he asked guilelessly.

"You _know_ what." Sam looked meaningfully from his brother's hands to the pad of paper sitting next to him on the bed.

Dean's mouth widened in a grin that most women would have found charming. Of course, most women didn't spend half their time on the receiving end of his twisted sense of humor.

"What's wrong? Having trouble concentrating?"

Maybe it wouldn't really be a crime to kill Dean. There was such a thing as justifiable homicide. No one was going to convict him for acting in his own self-defense, right?

"So," Dean drawled when Sam's only response was a pointed stare, "You find anything yet, Sammy? Preferaby something big and nasty that needs killing? I'm dying of boredom here."

And that right there was the real problem. They'd been stuck in this town—in this motel room—for two weeks now, waiting for Dean's ribs to finish healing up from their recent run-in with a pair of momos, and Dean had never done well with waiting. Sam probably wouldn't have gotten him to rest at all if the hairy apeman had hurled Dean into anything other than his precious Impala.

Sam had pointed out the sizable dent in the Impala's left side and asked Dean if he really wanted to chance leaving it unfixed during the storms that were currently sweeping through Colorado. After all, dents rusted fairly easily, didn't they? Dean had grumbled an assent and even allowed Sam to drive the Impala over to the tin-walled shack that served as this town's garage, which only proved how much he needed the recovery time. Sam could count the times that Dean allowed a stranger to work on that car on one hand.

Just to make sure that his brother healed up properly this time, Sam had bribed the mechanic with a crumpled twenty—a memento of Dean's last trip to the pool hall—to take his time with the repairs. Dean had initially been pleased with the 'special attention' his baby was getting, then impatient, and finally, as his ribs stopped protesting every time he sat up, annoyed.

That was when Sam remembered what a pain in the ass his brother was whenever he was laid up for more than a day, and when he had begun to think that his brilliant plan was maybe not such a good idea. That had been over a week ago, and Dean had gone from annoyed to bored in no time. The only thing worse than a bored Dean was ... well, right now Sam couldn't really come up with anything to finish that particular sentence.

He had considered going back to the mechanic and asking him to speed it up—hell, _begging_ him—but he didn't think that, after being slipped money to delay the job, the man would pick up the pace again without a little extra incentive. And there wasn't any more money to spare: wouldn't be until Dean found himself another game.

Sometimes, for all the 'College Boy' crap Dean threw at him, Sam suspected that he was, in fact, kind of a moron.

He sighed, trying to ease his temper down a notch. After all, it wasn't Dean's fault that they had been stuck here for two weeks. And patience was a virtue, wasn't it? Only Sam wasn't feeling too virtuous right now.

"I'm looking, all right?" he said, turning back to the laptop. "Just give me a minute."

"You've had a whole week," Dean muttered, and then fell silent.

Sam resisted the urge to ask Dean just how he thought they would have gotten to a job without the Impala. He wasn't going to get into a pissing contest with his brother about this. They weren't kids anymore, after all, and they could damned well act like grown ups.

A crinkling noise from behind him made Sam's shoulder muscles tense. _Well, _one_ of us isn't a kid anymore._

"I mean it, Dean," he said, voice tight. "You throw one more piece of paper at me, and—"

Thunk. Just like the other fifteen or so balls, the wadded up paper hit the back of his head and bounced off. This one landed in the plastic trashcan. Dean burst out laughing behind him.

"Oh, score! Man, I should go out for the NBA. I could run fucking rings around those dudes."

"You. Are. So. _Dead._" Sam was out of the chair in a second, shoving it back and out of his way. Of course, that was a second longer than it took Dean to roll off the bed, and by the time Sam had taken a step his brother was already in the bathroom and shutting the door.

The lock clicked just as Sam's hand closed on the doorknob. He clenched his jaw in frustration and pounded on the door with his left hand, still jiggling the knob with his right.

"Damn it, Dean!"

And Dean was laughing. The asshole was locked in the bathroom, laughing at him. "Hey, Samantha! Anybody ever tell you you run like a girl?"

Sam slammed his fist against the door one final time, making it rattle in its frame, and then settled back on his heels, fuming. "You can't stay in there forever."

"Yeah, but I don't need to," came Dean's smooth response, and Sam could _hear_ the smirk in it. "_I_ didn't have three cans of Coke with my dinner, and _I'm_ not the one with a locked door between me and the only available toilet for miles."

Sam's stomach lurched, but he worked his jaw and growled, "Guy here; I don't exactly need a toilet."

"Yeah, sure: most guys wouldn't," Dean called. "But _someone's_ got a little stage fright issue. Besides, do you know what they do around here to people who expose themselves in public?"

Damn it. Sam didn't need to go, not really, not yet, but Dean was right about the public performance issue. He had a hard enough time using public urinals—he was just one of those guys who liked privacy, he guessed—and as for going outside … He'd never been able to manage it, even as a kid.

There was a squeak from the other side of the bathroom door and suddenly Sam could hear running water. Oh, that was low. Sam stared at the door, trying to decide whether or not he should just go get the lock picks and let himself in. Of course, the door opened outward, and he would have to kneel right in front of it to work the lock. That left him vulnerable to having the door slammed open in—_on_—his face. The mood Dean was in, Sam wouldn't put it past his brother to take the cheap shot. And now, as he stood there listening to the steady gurgle of water falling into the sink, he realized that he _did_ have to go.

This meant war.

He cast his eyes over the room and caught sight of his brother's leather jacket hanging over the side of the room's sorry excuse for an armchair. Grinning, he stalked over to it. The leather was cool in his hands and smelled faintly of cigarettes—not because Dean smoked, but because he spent most of his free time in bars and pool halls.

A pang of reluctance made Sam pause, his hands wrapped in the scuffed leather. Dean loved this coat. Not as much as the Impala, maybe, but he'd had it for years and resisted any and all attempts to replace it with something newer. He couldn't trash his big brother's coat, no matter how much of a jackass said brother was being.

Sam groaned and shifted his stance. Even all the way over here, across the room, he could still hear the running water. Why the hell had he drunk all that Coke?

Hold up. Even though _he_ knew he'd never touch the coat, it didn't necessarily follow that _Dean_ had to know, did it?

The scissors were in the first aid kit: small but razor sharp. If he'd really meant business he would have found a knife—there were enough of them lying around the room—but of course knives didn't make that satisfying snick. Sam ghosted back toward the door with the coat in one hand, scissors in the other, and a wide smile plastered on his face.

Dean was getting nervous at the lack of sound coming from the room. "Sammy?" he shouted. "Hey, you out there, man?"

"Right here, Dean," Sam answered.

"What're you doing?"

Sam ignored the question. "You know, I've been thinking. Some of the handles on the knives are getting a little slick—too worn, right? Maybe we should do a little home improvement: replace the grips."

"Sam, what are you doing out there?" Oh yeah, Dean was definitely nervous.

"Of course, we're running a little low on cash, so buying new wraps is kinda out of the question, but we've got all the ingredients right here." He paused for effect. "Leather makes for a pretty good grip, wouldn't you say?" The scissors made their snicking sound.

Dean's voice, when it came, was ashen. "You wouldn't."

"Just watch me. Oh, wait, I forgot. You can't. Of course, if you opened the door you'd be able to see a lot better." Snick.

"Okay, okay. Truce."

"Now who's the bitch?" Sam asked, tossing the coat and scissors onto Dean's bed as his brother finally opened the door. Dean hurried over to ensure that Sam hadn't damaged the leather, and Sam resisted the urge to punch him in the arm as he went by. They had a truce, and Sam wasn't quite suicidal enough to break it now.

Tossing the door shut behind him, Sam went over to the toilet to take care of his problem. Dean's sullen muttering floated into the bathroom, not loud enough for him to make out any words, but more than audible enough to be distracting. How the hell was he supposed to piss with Dean ... with Dean _crooning_ at his damned coat?

Sam rolled his eyes up and leaned his forehead against the tiled wall. If they didn't find another job soon, he wasn't going to be responsible for what happened.


End file.
